


Lisbon, I Love You

by randomdreamer01



Series: The Germans Wore Grey, You Wore Blue [3]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - World War II, Angst, Drama, Espionage, Everything is a mess, F/M, Romance, Sexual Content, World War II, but i tried
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-22
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 16:49:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10701084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomdreamer01/pseuds/randomdreamer01
Summary: And for Cassian Andor, Lisbon is the fast pace of what eventually happens on this walk. Lisbon is her hand disappearing underneath his shirt and his palm cupping her breast through the fabric of her dress. It is her whimpering in his ear as she begs him formore, more, more…...Lisbon, 1941.Cassian Andor is a spy for the Allies, Jyn Erso is a stranded mess of a human being, and their wartime affair is both the best and the worst thing that could have happened..*Special thanks to the amazingllgffor makingthis incredible edit.





	1. First Act

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story - all two chapters of it - is more like word vomit, guys. I'm sorry for the strange format and all the other strange things I tried to do but maybe didn't quite manage to pull off. Please be kind to me! Again, I am not a WWII expert. Although I did a ton of research for this story (see end notes), I welcome correction and criticism if it is delivered fairly and rationally. [You can also check out the series’ official playlist here. I'll be updating it as I go along.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL6q0-u-EGyHV_gc5rxOwwUA5NFzQKEHUQ)
> 
> Warning: there are slightly steamy scenes ahead. So turn back now if you're uncomfortable with sexual content. 
> 
> Reviews are (almost) better than this Michael Kiwanuka album I'm playing over and over again. So please leave one or several if you can!

_In Lisbon, happiness was staged so that God could believe it still existed._

**Antoine de Saint-Exupery,** on his time in Lisbon during the war

 

* * *

 

**Lisbon, 1941**

 

There is a myth that Lisbon was founded by Odysseus, the great and duplicitous mind behind the Trojan horse. They say the man washed ashore here during his journey home from Troy, hungry and alone, longing for his wife and his kingdom. He had named the city Olissopo, meaning the ‘enchanting port’, but now, Lisbon is simply called the City of Light. 

The name is apt, to a certain extent. In many ways, Lisbon is the light amidst the war and bloodshed. Amidst the depression and the dark clouds from Berlin. It has become both a haven and a hell for the thousands of refugees fleeing Hitler’s insanity. The last safe house before the shores of America. The bottleneck of Europe. 

Perhaps this is what Odysseus had intended when he raised the pillars and lingered here for a spell, thousands and thousands of years ago. Perhaps this Olissopo was a home to him, of sorts. To make up for the real one, lost somewhere beyond the horizon….

But whatever Lisbon truly was for Odysseus, Cassian Andor will never know. 

Because for Cassian Andor, Lisbon is smoked-filled rooms full to bursting with German and British spies. Lisbon is an empty hotel suite, with a bed covered in a white, crumpled sheet. Lisbon is the copy of James Joyce’ _Ulysses_ he has in his jacket pocket, old and worn out, borrowed indefinitely from the Lisbon library. It is the weight of the gun he has tucked and hidden in his belt. It is the smells and sights and sounds of a far away war. Of cheap living. Of women he has no business sleeping with, but he does anyway. Of a man falling dead to the ground in a dark alley, pierced in the back by his bullet. 

But, above all, Lisbon is _her -_  her with the ferocious eyes and the burning heart and the callous hands. 

.

.

_._

It is, at the end of the day, like Joyce had written. _Come what might she would be wild, untrammelled, free,_ while he will always be doomed.

 

* * *

 

He first meets her outside a nightclub in Bairro Alto. It is a little after midnight, and he has escaped outside to get away from the noise. A German (spy, but no one mentions it out of politeness) had just got the news that his wife in Berlin had given birth last week and Cassian - who is never in a mood for celebrations anyway - cannot even summon the energy to fake a joyous congratulations. Fortunately, the German is too drunk to notice his tiredness. Cassian thinks that even if Churchill himself were to walk into the club, the German would still think nothing was amiss.

Happiness does that to a person. Blinds him to what is staring him right in the face. 

Cassian is smoking a cigarette when she moves out of the shadows and into his line of vision. 

“Can I get a light?” 

Smoke swirls in the space between them and he has to swat it away to reveal a pair of round, heavy-lidded eyes staring at him. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“A light,” she repeats. Her voice is hard, heavily accented. He recognises it immediately; living in Lisbon has made him even better at recognising accents. It is British, but with a slight tinge of French. Interesting, he thinks fleetingly. 

“I beg your pardon?” he asks again, stupidly. 

“A light.” She frowns, visibly getting impatient. “If you would be so kind.”

She is not dressed like a lady going out for the night. No jewellery (smart), no pair of heels, no fancy dress. Just a dark coat pulled tight around her small frame. Her short brown hair is almost hidden by the cap she is wearing, pulled low over her eyes. 

“Of course,” he says. He shifts his weight to his other foot and takes out his lighter from his jacket pocket. She lifts her right hand to show the cigarette she has squeezed between her index and middle fingers. 

“Thank you,” she replies, and slips the end of the cigarette into her mouth. She leans in closer to him, toward the lighter, and he flicks it on and lights the cigarette for her. 

For a moment, she does not move away. And he looks down at her, strangely fascinated. 

“Are you - ”

“Andor, old chap, there you are!” a voice cries out and a man staggers out of the club, grinning drunkenly from ear to ear. He is a very handsome man, blonde with twinkling eyes, and his arms are wrapped around two beautiful girls who look equally as intoxicated. “Is this where you have been hiding, you lucky bastard? How ever did you manage to escape our Jerry friend?”

“I just needed a smoke, Lunn,” says Cassian. 

The strange woman steps away from his side, almost disappearing into the darkness. Lunn, however, spots her immediately and winks at Cassian.

“Oh, is this one of yours, then? 

“I’m not anybody’s,” the woman pipes up, glaring hard at Lunn. 

“A feisty English lass, no less." Lunn grins. Like Cassian, he recognises the accent. “Andor, you better give her over to her fellow countryman. An English rose is wasted on the likes of you.”

Cassian is experienced enough not to react to the insult. He merely quips, “You seem to have your hands full already, Lunn.”

“When has that ever stopped me, Andor?” Lunn winks again. “But ah, I’ll be generous. Just this once. You can keep her.” 

Cassian senses the woman stepping out of the shadows; there is a ghost of a touch as the sleeve of her coat brushes against his arm. But thankfully, she does not say anything.

“Where are you off to then?” Cassian asks Lunn, trying to bring the Englishman’s attention back on him. 

Lunn shrugs and one of the girls on his arm giggles breathlessly for no reason at all. “Probably Cais do Sodre.”

“Ah. Of course.”

“Fleming is here for the night, you see. Care to join us?”

“I’d rather shoot myself in the head.”

Lunn’s smile barely slips. “I never understand you, Andor. Do you think you’re better than the rest of us?”

_No._

But Cassian does not say so. He forces a grim smile - polite but distant - and Lunn waves it away with a careless hand. He whispers something in Portuguese to one of the girls and she breaks out once more into giggles. Lunn smirks, raises a hand to Cassian, and staggers on his way.

“Charming individual,” the woman beside Cassian remarks quietly. She is still smoking the cigarette he has lit for her. But there is something broken swimming in her eyes, dark and intense. “A friend of yours?”

“Of sorts.” Saying Lunn is a colleague would be giving away too much.

The woman brushes a strand of hair away from her eyes. Even in the dim light, he can see how green they are. 

“Well, thank you for the light,” she says. 

“Your welcome, Miss - ?” 

“I just needed a smoke,” she says, echoing the words he said to Lunn. She pulls her cap down even further and buries a hand into the pocket of her coat. The light from the end of her cigarette blinks back at him. “I left my own lighter in France, you see.” 

He does not give the meeting much thought afterward. 

(But Lisbon is her slinking back into the shadows and disappearing into the night before he can say anything else.) 

 

* * *

 

The second time he meets her, it is three days later at the city’s square, Praça do Comércio.

He is hurrying out of the post office, an empty envelope tucked underneath his arm, as he weaves through the crowd of mothers, fathers, children, widowers, soon-to-be widowers and crying babies. Someone is shouting - first in Portuguese, then in French, and then in English - “Please, ladies and gentlemen, get in line!” 

_Bloody good luck with that,_ is the last thing that crosses Cassian’s mind before he collides with an almighty crash against a figure barging through the sea of people. The force of the impact sends him reeling, nearly putting him on the ground. Somehow, he manages to grab hold of a nearby person’s shoulder and steadies himself just in time. He curses profusely in Spanish and is about to switch to English when his eyes land on the figure in question. 

He is too astounded at the coincidence to form words. She, however, isn’t. 

“Watch where you’re going,” she snaps harshly. 

She has on the same coat and the same boots. Her hair tied in the same way underneath her cap. The only difference is how much younger she looks in daylight. Younger, fiercer, with her mouth set in a sharp line. Her eyes - green with flecks of angry gold - bore into his relentlessly. 

“Aren’t you going to apologise?” she demands.

He blinks. “It’s you.” 

She cocks her head to the side and looks at him like he is mad. “I don’t - ”

“Three nights ago. In Bairro Alto. You asked me for a light.” 

He sees the recognition stealing into her features. She purses her lips together. “Ah. You’re a friend of sorts to that rude Englishman.”

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s the post office. I’ve come to mail letters.” 

“Have you come to ask after someone?” 

She suddenly tenses. “Why would you think that?”

“Because everyone here is.” 

The post office at Praça do Comércio is where they all come to seek news about loved ones left behind in France, in Poland, in countries now occupied by the Nazis. Reliable news is scarce, especially for refugees, but people keep coming anyway; they do not have any other choice.

“Are you looking for someone?” he asks again, his voice dropping lower, and he does not understand why is he taking such an interest in her affairs. 

Her eyes flicker hurriedly to the people around them, but she does not reply. 

“You can tell me,” says Cassian, his voice now almost at a whisper. “Maybe I could help.”

She raises an eyebrow and pulls away from him. “Oh, can you?”

He does not want to say anymore. He _can’t_ say anymore, and she scoffs at him, clearly unimpressed.

(And for Cassian Andor, Lisbon is her pushing his way pass him and melting into the onrushing crowd.) 

 

* * *

 

The third time he meets her, it is nearly three weeks later and it is at Bairro Alto again. 

This time, it is at another night club, one of the city’s most popular haunts. It is well beyond midnight and he is strolling past the place on his way back to his hotel, a cigarette in hand. He is letting himself enjoy the night’s cool air, letting it wash away the perfume that clings to his clothes from the night’s encounter. The woman had been Portuguese. Pretty, smart, demanding, but, most importantly, a good mistress to boot to a well-known German spy. Cassian is mulling over the information she has given him, turning each stone over and over again in his mind, when he hears shouts coming from inside the night club. 

Someone is cursing loudly in German. Another person is yelling non-stop in Portuguese and Cassian’s is good enough to catch the brunt of it: “Is this bloody woman insane?” Then, the German again: “Get this bitch off of me!” 

A group of men is cheering. There is the sound of glass shattering. And before Cassian can decide whether he should stop and investigate, the club’s door is swung open and someone is thrown headfirst onto the ground in front of him.

“Stay out!” yells the doorman in heavily-accented English, before swinging the door shut again. The act is met with jeers from the patrons inside the club. 

“Bloody idiots,” groans the figure on the ground. The person who has been thrown out - a woman, Cassian realises with a jolt - lifts up her face and spits blood onto the ground. 

Cassian cannot help but gasp. 

Yes, it is her again. But in an old party dress that looks borrowed, her hair loose around her shoulders, and with her lip bruised and bleeding. She looks a mess. A goddamn fiery mess. 

When her eyes alight on him, she curses again, this time in French. 

“Why, isn’t this my lucky day!”

“Believe me,” says Cassian wryly, stepping forward to help her to her feet, “I’m not having the best one myself.”

“I don’t need your help.” 

“What were you doing in there?”

“I said - I don’t need your help.” She tries to shrug his hand away, but his grip on her elbow does not slacken. 

“Were you trying to start a fight with a German?”

“I didn’t. The bastard tried to start a fight with _me._ ”

“Why?”

“Does it matter?” She shrugs and winces from the gesture. He notices a bruise beginning to form on her right shoulder. And before he can comprehend what he is doing, he is taking off his jacket and draping it around her. 

“It is not safe,” he says. 

He expects her to chuck his jacket away in an instant. But, surprisingly, she pulls it tighter around her, and he decides that she does not look half-bad in it. 

“The whole world is not safe,” she says cuttingly. “We are at war.”

“Still, attacking a German in Lisbon - ”

“Portugal is neutral,” she cuts in automatically, as if she has rehearsed the line far too many times. 

“You know it doesn’t work like that.” He shifts his hand from her elbow to her wrist and she pauses a little, letting herself lean her weight against him. “If you wanted to get information, I told you at Praça do Comércio that maybe I could help.” 

Her eyes narrow distrustfully when she turns to look at him. “Forgive me, but I don’t even know your name. Who are you?”

“Cassian Andor.” 

It is stupid to give his full name, he knows that, but he cannot help himself. When she looks at him like this, giving his name is the easiest thing in the world. He should be more careful; after all, the city is crawling with spies. But there is absolutely nothing he can do about the fact that something about this woman gets to him. 

She stares at him for a moment, curiosity and apprehension written all over her face. Then - 

“What can you do for me, Cassian Andor?”

“I can start by walking you home,” he replies boldly. “Where are you staying?”

Her eyebrows lift in surprise. “Why are you offering to walk me home?”

“Because it is late. And because I don’t trust you,” he says truthfully, shrugging. “This is the third time we have run into each other. I don’t believe in coincidences.” 

“So you are walking me home to make sure I’m not a spy? A spy for who, exactly? The Germans? The British? The Portuguese?” She makes a tutting sound and shakes her head wearily. “Enlighten me, Mister Andor. Because there are so many spies in Lisbon that sometimes I lost track of all the different sides one can possibly be on.”

“Which side are _you_ on, then?” 

“I think the black eye I just gave that Nazi is a good indication of which side I’m on. But the question here is..." - she smiles at him as though this is all a challenge - “...which side are _you_ on, Mister Andor? 

“Oh, I can’t possibly tell you that.”

She scoffs. “Yes, I figured you’d say that.” 

She looks disappointed, but the way her eyes study him says she already knows the answer. Her body softens against his touch and she lets herself grab his arm as they walk down the quiet, deserted street together. 

After a few minutes of silence, of him trying not to question where they are headed, he asks, “So where are you from?”

“Oh, here and there.”

He smiles thinly. “Where were you before Lisbon, then?”

She does not answer right away. She lets the question linger in the air for a couple of seconds before replying. “Bordeaux.” 

“Ah. Bordeaux.”

Not a surprise. He should have guessed Bordeaux. It was where the disgraced consul, Aristides de Sousa Mendes, was stationed. He was recalled back to Portugal by the Prime Minister, António de Oliveira Salazar, late last year, but not before he had issued more than his fair share of Portuguese visas to those who ran afoul of the Nazis and the Vichy regime. 

“What is your name?” he asks. 

“Jyn Erso.”

Erso. He has never heard of that name before, not from his contacts or from any of the German spies he knows. If she is a resistance fighter, then she is not a very famous one. 

“How are you liking Lisbon?”

She wrinkles her nose a little. “Well enough.”

“Are you waiting to go to America like everyone else?”

Her grip on his arm tightens. “No more questions,” she says, her tone sharp. 

“Alright,” he sighs. “No more questions.” 

.

.

.

(And for Cassian Andor, Lisbon is the fast pace of what eventually happens on this walk. Of how she suddenly backs him into an empty alley and stands on her tip-toes to pull his lips down to hers. Of how she then presses hungry, desperate kisses to his jawline and neck, making him groan, all his thoughts scattering to the wind.

Lisbon is her hand disappearing underneath his shirt, his palm cupping her breast through the fabric of her dress. It is her whimpering in his ear as she begs him for _more, more, more…_ ) 

 

* * *

 

The kiss is seared inside his brain for days afterward. 

It lingers there like a childhood memory, a part of him now like the way he knows his own name. Every morning when he looks in the mirror, it is not his face he sees, but hers. Bright and mysterious green eyes, a pair of lips bruised from kissing. He brings his razor up to his neck, against the beard that is growing there, and the knuckles on his hand turns white as he grips the edge of the sink.

It is just a kiss, he tells himself. He has kissed plenty of strangers. It does not mean he has to see her again. It does not mean they have to take this further, turning it into something that it is not. He does not know her at all; they haven't had the time nor the luxury. She should not matter this much. But he is letting her dominate his thoughts nonetheless and nothing can explain her away.

He remembers the quote, read from one of the frayed pages he keeps in his jacket:

_I think of you so often you have no idea._

_._

_._

_._

A week later, he returns late one night to find her standing in front of his hotel, half-hidden in shadows and with a cigarette clamped in her mouth. The usual stubborn posture. The usual turn of her neck when she sees him approaching. 

He stops in his tracks and his eyes instantly sweep around the area. The road is empty, with only a few drunken passerbys, and she is almost invisible, standing far away from the circle of light from the hotel window. 

“How do you know where I live?”

She shrugs and breathes out a column of smoke. “You people aren’t hard to find.”

“My people?”

She does not elaborate, but steps forward, closer and closer until the toes of her shoes nearly scrape against his. 

“People will see,” he whispers. And that is bad - bad for him, bad for her, bad for the entire goddamn enterprise. 

She cocks her head to the side, pursing her lips together in a determined manner. “Do you trust me?”

“Not remotely.”

She smiles and then grabs hold of him by the neck, pulls him down until his lips brush against hers. He can feel her trembling at the touch. 

“Cassian,” she rasps against his mouth, “let’s simply get this over with.”

She’s right. Maybe she’s right. If this attraction between them is not going to go away, then they should at least get it over with in the hope that it might. 

So he brings her up to his room through the back stairway, making certain that all the corridors are empty before he takes her through. She is kissing him roughly, has his body pressed up against the door as he unlocks it. They tumble into his dark room together, breathless and fumbling, all hands and mouths and tongues. 

She untucks his shirt from inside his trousers and pulls it off in one glorious tug. Her teeth scrape against the column of his neck. “Undress me.” 

And Cassian does not need asking twice. 

She kicks off her shoes while he rids her off her coat and her dress, while she whispers, “Don’t ruin my stockings” in a tone that is close enough to a laugh. 

He ends up pulling her stockings off with shaking hands as she practically drags him down on top of her on the bed. In the moonlight, she lies naked and panting underneath him, face flushed and her eyes sweeping over his body as though she is about to devour every inch of him. She grabs his hand and places it between her legs, and he moans at how wet she is. She bucks up to him, and by God, he almost breaks right then and there. 

They are in the middle of a war, for goodness’ sake. They do not deserve this kind of pleasure. But she is pushing herself onto his fingers - insistently, angrily - and he is powerless. He can do nothing but please her. So he slides one finger in, then two, and moves them within her in a vigorous pace, drawing out moan after delicious moan from her lips. 

“Trousers off,” she babbles through the haze. “I need you inside me.” 

“Condom,” he manages to stammer. With his fingers still inside her, he reaches over with his other hand to open the bedside drawer and retrieves the item in question. 

Her body squirms desperately underneath his. “Bring two.” 

.

.

.

Hours later, she finally peels herself off of him, but only to light a cigarette. His sheets cling to her bare skin and he can see the beads of sweat that are plastering her mussed hair to the nape of her neck and shoulder blades. With the lit cigarette in hand, she rolls back into him, her naked body pressing against his side. He is still panting, still catching his breath, as though he is still chasing after her and she keeps slipping through his fingers. 

She places the cigarette between his teeth and lets him take a drag. It calms him down somewhat, but then she takes it back and curls herself into him even more, and he almost curses at her for sending another shot of electricity through his body. 

He does not think he has ever wanted someone this much. It feels as if he is going to want her forever. 

“Who are you, really, and what were you before?”

She exhales a column of smoke and they watch as it twists and turns up to the darkened ceiling. “We said no questions.”

“ _You_ said no questions.”

“It is for the best,” she says softly. “Would _you_ like me to ask you some too, even though we both know you can’t answer them?”

He becomes silent. Of course she is right. Questions complicate things, and things are already complicated enough. 

“Here,” she says and moves to straddle him with her thighs pressed against his. His breath catches in his throat as he looks up at her, more real and more magnificent than he deserves. 

She takes another drag from her cigarette before bringing it down to his lips. Her hand trembles as she holds it, waits for him to inhale again. 

“We have this. Let’s enjoy this,” she says quietly, her other hand trailing up and down his chest. “We are not going to have it for much longer.”

(And for Cassian Andor, Lisbon is her putting out the cigarette and bending down to suck at his throat. It is her with her hot mouth and flashing eyes, and her muttering incoherently when he runs his tongue down, down, down her body until she screams.)

.

.

.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An excerpt from the next chapter:
> 
> “So she’s French?” asks Draven. 
> 
> “I’m not quite sure what she is, sir," replies Cassian. 
> 
> His mentor scoffs. “ _That’s_ bloody reassuring.” 
> 
> \--
> 
> Not my best work, I admit, but I had a roaring time doing research for this! I decided not to give Cassian and Jyn too much backstory, although I have a rough idea of what happened to Jyn before she came to Lisbon. Unfortunately, Cassian's backstory is not at all relevant to the plot I'm telling. However, if you have your own headcanons, I'll be thrilled to hear them! [You can also check out the series’ official playlist here. I'll be updating it as I go along.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL6q0-u-EGyHV_gc5rxOwwUA5NFzQKEHUQ)
> 
> Now onto the history: 
> 
> \- Odysseus and Ulysses are the same character, and James Joyce' novel, Ulysses (published in 1922), was inspired by the original mythology. Most of the italicised quotes in this story are from this novel. 
> 
> \- Lisbon was very much "the bottleneck of Europe" during WWII. It was the Casablanca of the film 'Casablanca' and it was where refugees fleeing from the Nazis were stranded. Most of them hoped to get a passage to America, one of the few countries that hadn't yet joined the war during 1941. 
> 
> \- Lisbon was also considered 'the capital of espionage'. Because of Portugal's neutrality, the city was crawling with spies, including British ones and German ones. The Fleming mentioned by Lunn is Ian Fleming, author of James Bond, who was based in Lisbon for 'Operation Goldeneye'. His mission was to ensure that Britain still had control of Gibraltar if Spain joined the war or was invaded by the Axis. Most of these spies lived in hotels, which was why I gave Cassian a swanky hotel suite. 
> 
> \- Cais do Sodre was Lisbon's red light district.
> 
> \- António de Oliveira Salazar was Portugal's Prime Minister during WWII and he founded "Estado Novo", the authoritarian government that ruled the country until 1974. Both Spain and Portugal were neutral (despite their leaders' personal leanings), and both tried to get through the war with as little damage as possible. The Germans' invasion of Spain, if it were to happen, would have had drastic consequences for both the Allies and Portugal. 
> 
> \- Aristides de Sousa Mendes was a Portuguese consul in Bordeaux who granted many Portuguese visas to those fleeing prosecution during the start of the war. He was recalled back to Portugal by Salazar in 1940; the large amount of refugees in Portugal made it hard for the country to maintain its neutrality. Mendes' act was truly heroic. He granted up to tens of thousands of visas, saving countless of lives, including Salvador Dalí's! 
> 
> \---
> 
> I promise more angst, more plot, and more history in the next chapter. But for now, guys, PLEASE tell me what you thought!


	2. Second Act

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her hiding in the dark, waiting for him to return to his hotel. Him smuggling her upstairs, pressing kisses to her lips as they rush through empty corridors like foolish teenagers.
> 
> (They are young, but they have never been young until now.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all your lovely comments on the first chapter, so now here's the next and final one! I think it's a bit of a mess, especially grammatically, but I tried my best, guys, so please let me know what you thought. [You can also check out the series’ official playlist here. I'll be updating it as I go along.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL6q0-u-EGyHV_gc5rxOwwUA5NFzQKEHUQ)
> 
> Warning: there is mild sexual content and references to the holocaust in this chapter. If you are uncomfortable with either of these things, please turn back now. Again, I am no expert (although see my research in the end notes) so if you want to make corrections, please leave a calm and respectable comment and I will get back to you. 
> 
> Reviews are (almost) better than "Somewhere Beyond The Sea (La Mer)", an absolute gem of a song. So please leave one or several if you can. Happy reading!

_Every life is in many days, day after day. We walk through ourselves, meeting robbers, ghosts, giants, old men, young men, wives, widows, brothers-in-love, but always meeting ourselves._

**James Joyce, _Ulysses_**

* * *

  

They keep telling themselves that it won’t happen again. That they have already gotten it out of their system. But, by God, how wrong they are. It keeps happening - both far too much and far too little for his liking. Her hiding in the dark, waiting for him to return to his hotel. Him smuggling her upstairs, pressing kisses to her lips as they rush through empty corridors like foolish teenagers.

(They are young, but they have never been young until now.) 

She makes love with anger, as though making love is all she can do to fight this war. He craves gentleness, wants to take his time with her and not let everything be so rushed like the world is coming to an end. But he knows she needs it this way - her way. He does not know very much about her, but he knows this. So he lets her take him on the bed, on the floor, on the table, against the wall, almost anywhere she wants. Lets her climb on top of him and guide him inside her. Lets her ride and set the pace. Lets her take and enjoy and do whatever she wants with every part of him. Because, damn it, he is already the luckiest man in the world just to have one, tiny piece of her. 

He knows she is stranded here in Lisbon like all the other refugees, without a family and without any valuable belongings. That she is probably waiting for passage to America, to escape whatever she has abandoned in France. This means a day is coming when she will eventually leave him behind. He knows all of this, but his mind is still consumed with questions - ones he knows he can ask, but will never get the answers to. 

_Jyn, what are you running from? Who are you and who were you before? What did you do and what did you think?_

Silence. Silence. Silence. 

She presses herself closer to him every time he asks and then captures his mouth with hers until he is breathless. 

( _Unseen, one summer eve,_ the story goes,

_you kissed me in four places._ )

.

.

.

One night, out of curiosity, Cassian asks her, “What do you know of me?”

She shifts beside him and turns to look at him with her bright, round eyes. “Is this a test?”

“No, this is not a test,” he replies, smiling a little. “We decided no questions. But this is a question you can answer, can’t you?”

“What if you don’t like my answer?”

“Does it matter? You don’t give a damn about what I think. You don’t need to.”

Her smile becomes strange and her gaze drops down to their hands, entwined on his chest. Eventually, she whispers softly, “I do, you know.”

“You do, what?”

“Care what you think.”

His heart swells a little at her words. He bends downs and plants a kiss on the top of her head. It is all he knows how to do; the right words cannot really be found. 

He repeats the question again: “So what do you know of me?” 

She hesitates. He can feel her drawing in a long breath. “You’re a spy.”

“Almost everyone in this city is a spy.” 

“True.” She pauses again. “But with you, it is harder to tell. You’re good.”

He resists the urge to ask her how she knows this. Again, he has his guesses. He has assumed long ago that she has had military training. Maybe not in intelligence, but definitely in combat. It is in her stance, the way she walks and moves. He also knows of a German or two in Lisbon whose bruises can attest to the fact. Whatever kind of training she has had, she is used to being around people who follow orders, specifically hers. So it does not surprise him at all that she recognises him for what he is. 

“But there is something interesting here,” she continues quietly. “The Germans think you work for them. I’ve seen you around the city. You are friends with them. They buy you drinks and cigarettes. They even share their women with you.” She says it like it is the most normal thing in the world and it is _him_ who blushes in the dark. “But you can’t possibly be for Hitler. I wouldn’t be sleeping with you if I thought you were.” 

“Then..?”

“I’d say the Spanish, but that doesn’t make any sense either.”

He chuckles despite himself. “Why is that?”

“Spain can’t afford to be aggressive in this war. And I can’t picture you, of all people, sitting quietly on the sidelines, twiddling your thumb and letting the Nazis swarm all over Europe.” 

The way her mind works should scare him. Instead, it makes him smile. “If it is not the Spanish, then who is it?”

“The British,” she says resolutely. “It is always the British, isn’t it?” She props up on one elbow and looks at him carefully. “Am I right?”

Of course he can’t give her an answer. He runs his hand through her hair instead and tugs her down for a kiss. 

“What about you, Jyn?” he asks. Somehow, he just keeps asking. “Why did you stop fighting for France?”

For a moment, he thinks it is going to be like before, that she is simply going to continue kissing him and ignore his question. But her voice breaks for the first time when she whispers against his mouth, “You can’t fight for someone who left you behind.”

(And for Cassian Andor, Lisbon is him kissing away the few tears that begin to roll down her cheeks. It is him slipping gently inside of her, holding her close to him as she moves, moves, moves like they could escape their past if only they ran fast enough. 

Alas, he already knows how the story goes. 

_History,_ he remembers, _is a nightmare from which I am trying to wake._ )

 

* * *

 

“You are different,” Draven states bluntly. 

There is no point in arguing the fact; they have known each other for too long. So Cassian merely shrugs helplessly in response.

“Perhaps I am,” he says, looking at his mentor from across the desk. Draven’s office is large, but that doesn’t stop the man from filling the entire wooden surface with mountains and mountains of documents. “It is this city. After a while, it gets to me.”

“What is it? New information? New recruit?” Draven grimaces. “A new woman?”

Cassian’s silence is all the answer Draven needs. He chews on his bottom lip, worry clouding his expression. “Who is she?”

“You don’t have to worry,” says Cassian curtly. “She’s nobody.”

“She _is_ somebody if she makes you fidget like a schoolboy.”

“She is nobody,” repeats Cassian. “She came from Bordeaux, probably with one of Mendes’s last visas. She is not a spy. Not even close.” 

“So she’s French?”

“I’m not quite sure what she is, sir.” 

Draven scoffs. “ _That’s_ bloody reassuring.” 

“She is not going to get in the way of what we are doing. She is not dangerous.”

“Am I supposed to rely on your judgement for this, Andor?” 

“You’ve relied on me this far, sir. It’d be a shame if you stopped now.”

“I don’t like it.”

“You don’t have to like it, sir. You just have to trust me.” 

Draven stares at him, and Cassian can almost see all the cogs turning in his mentor’s brain. Both of them are the same kind of animal, really. Shrewd, pragmatic, always does what needs to be done. So Cassian knows, that when push comes to shove, the older man will let him have his way because of this very fact. 

They can’t afford to question each other’s every move. They have too much to lose. 

“Alright. On your head be it,” says Draven grimly. “Now, enough of this bird who might or might not be French. What do you have for me?” 

“You’re not going to like this as well, sir.”

“Out with it, then.” 

“Salazar is still selling tungsten to the Germans.” 

Draven’s eyes darken immediately at the mention of the Portuguese Prime Minister. He slams a fist on the table, sending a piece of paper fluttering to the floor.

“Curse that bastard! We keep asking him not to, but he keeps doing whatever the hell he wants, doesn’t he? We have a treaty, for fuck’s sake.” 

“One that was signed nearly six hundred years ago, sir,” says Cassian calmly. “Salazar is no fool. He knows that as long as he can keep both the Allies and the Axis happy, Portugal can remain neutral.”

“Stop lecturing me, Andor. I know this already,” snaps Draven. “But it doesn’t make it less frustrating. What about Azores? Have you heard anything? We need that bloody island.” 

“Nothing, sir. Salazar does not plan on giving it to us. But he is not planning on giving it to the Germans either. So that’s something, at least.”

“Spain?”

“All quiet on that front, sir. But Fleming will know more.”

Draven scratches his beard absent-mindedly, his eyes sweeping over Cassian’s expression. “And the Germans still trust your information?” 

Cassian shrugs. “Of course, sir. They think it’s invaluable.” He lets himself smile humourlessly. “I’m aiming for an Iron Cross from them before this war is over.” 

Draven smirks. “Well done. At least _something_ we do is progressing as planned.” He hesitates. Then his hand drops to the table’s wooden surface and he looks carefully at Cassian. “You’re doing excellent work here, Andor, but if you wanted a transfer, now would be the time to ask. I know you haven’t been…very fond of Lisbon.”

“A transfer, sir? To where?”

“England. There is talk about opening a second front. They will need you, over at Baker Street.” 

“It is rather nice of you to take my preferences into account, sir,” says Cassian slowly. “But…perhaps I should stay here a little while longer.”

“Does this have anything to do with that woman of yours?” 

“No, sir,” replies Cassian quickly. “Not at all.” 

(And for Cassian Andor, Lisbon is his mentor looking at him with calculating eyes, not saying anything but saying everything with his gaze.) 

 

* * *

 

When Cassian returns to his hotel room late one afternoon, he is greeted by this unexpected scene: Jyn sitting up in his bed, her hair in disarray and with a bottle of wine in her hand. 

He pauses in the doorway at the sight of her, transfixed. They have always met during the night; it is safer that way. But here she is, looking over at him, with an incredibly strange look in her eyes, and there is sunlight streaming in through the window. 

He should ask if she is alright, but all he can say is, “How did you get into my room?”

“I have my ways.”

He closes the door behind him and shrugs out of his jacket. 

“Is everything alright?” He notices that the bottle she is holding is nearly empty. There is an ashtray next to her on the bed, filled with too many cigarette butts. “Jyn, are you drunk? It’s three in the afternoon.”

“Are you going to judge?” 

“No, but I - ”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d be here. I wanted somewhere that’s…” Her words trail off and she takes a sip from the bottle instead. Her hands are shaking as she runs one of them through her hair, messing it up even more.

Sighing, Cassian takes a seat next to her on the bed. She flinches a little when their shoulders brush against each other, and he reaches over to take the bottle away from her. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks quietly. 

“We said - ”

“No questions, I know. But, Jyn, please. Let me help you.” 

God, this is getting out of hand. But he is past caring now; he has already come this far with her and he is incapable of doing anything else.

She lifts a hand and brushes it against his abdomen, at the place right above his belt. Her touch is soft through the fabric of his shirt. Soft and light. His breath stutters in his throat.

“Jyn - ”

“Here is what I know about you,” she says, her tone turning coy, but strangely false. “You carry a gun.” Her hand travels to where the item is tucked into his belt and she removes it gently, then lets it drop onto the sheets. “You speak Spanish and English. Some Portuguese. A little German, and a little French.” Her fingers begin unbuckling his belt and he hates how his heart begins to beat faster and faster. “You carry a copy of _Ulysses_ in your jacket pocket. Although, curiously, I have never seen you read it.”

“I’ve read it. And I have the damnedest time getting it out of my head.” 

“My father used to read it too. Back when I was little. He had a copy in his library.”

“Jyn - ”

_“You think you're escaping and you run into yourself. Longest way round is the shortest way home._ Isn’t that a quote from the novel?”

Yes. Yes, it is. But he cannot seem to think properly, not with her fingers disappearing underneath his shirt. Not with them trailing teasingly across his exposed skin. 

“Ten years,” she continues, her voice now pained. “That was how long Odysseus roamed the seas before he found his way home. Can you imagine? Ten years.” 

“Jyn, we can just talk.” 

“We are talking.”

“You’re drunk.”

“And you’re not drunk enough.”

He whispers her name once more in protestation, but then her hand slips inside his trousers and wraps itself around his length. His next breath comes out as a gasp and his head rolls back against the headboard, all his coherent thoughts turning fainter and fainter as she presses her mouth to his neck. 

She whispers drunkenly against his skin, “I want…I want…” 

But he has no idea what it is she really wants. Does she want him? Or does she want some other lover she left behind in the fields of France? He wishes that he could read her mind, but she guards it better than anyone has ever guarded anything. And this war has turned them into pathetic beings, with lame excuses and pretentious, undeserved longings. 

It is only much later - when they are curled up naked and she is sleeping peacefully in his arms - that he finally realises what day it is.

It is the twenty-first of June, 1941. A day before the anniversary of the fall of France.

.

.

. 

Cassian wakes up with a horrible, throbbing headache. 

There is bright sunlight in his room, and when he opens his eyes, it blinds his vision for a moment. It takes a while for him to recall what happened last night and to steady his rapid breathing. A clock is ticking nearby, and his sheets are sticking to his naked skin, heavy with sweat. 

Once his eyes have adjusted to the light, he takes everything in piece by piece. The empty space beside him on the bed. The time: eleven-thirty. His clothes strewn on the floor. Several empty bottles of wine. A glass of water on the nearby table. But no Jyn. 

He rubs the sleep out of his eyes before reaching over and grabbing the glass. He downs its content in one go. There. A bath robe. He slips into it, his muscles aching and tensing as if he had just ran a marathon. He sits up and swings his legs off the bed. 

He has to walk now. Walk. 

So step by step, he makes his way slowly from the bed to the bathroom. His feet drag torturously across the carpeted floor. Thankfully, the bathroom door is wide open and he slips inside, bumping his shoulder against the doorframe. There. The mirror. He lifts his face up from the floor and looks into the glass surface. 

Damn. He looks an absolute mess. Blurry eyes, unkempt hair, his neck and lips bruised from too much use. There is a scratch along his collarbone, proof of how punishing her nails can be. He also needs a shave, and his hand finds the razor, resting on the edge of his sink. His head is still spinning. 

_Not that I wish it for you. But I say: Let my country die for me_

He soaks his razor in the warm water. There. The shaving cream. He lets his bathrobe slip onto the marbled-floor. Every part of his body is pulsing and twitching like it belongs to a new born infant. So he splashes water on his face, runs his wet hand around his neck and across his muscled chest. He thinks of the day he has ahead - filled with more smoky rooms, more talking in hushed voices, more of putting on an act - and he almost gags.

Alcohol has never been his friend. 

_Up to the present, it has done so._

The cold feel of the razor against his neck. He swipes it up slowly, cautiously; he has never been skilled at shaving himself. His thoughts return once more to her, and he tries his best to banish the memory of last night from his mind. Of her fingers on his skin, burning. Of her mouth, desperate and lonely. He should feel used. Once he realised what day yesterday was, what day today is, he should feel used. After all, she had turned to him only for comfort - to help her get drunk and forget whatever hell she was in a year ago when that damn armistice was signed in France. 

But like with everything else about her, he cannot bring himself to feel angry. Because he is using her too, in a way. This war is all about dying, so they turn to each other for the pretence of life. Is that such a crime?

_I don't want to die. Damn death. Long live life!_

He finishes shaving and dries his face with a fresh towel. The reflection that stares back at him is not much of an improvement. But at least he now looks presentable enough for important company. He returns to his bedroom to dress, slowly and carefully, and with an eye on the clock on the wall. 

It is nearly half-past noon when he finally makes his way downstairs to the hotel’s dining room. He thinks of getting just a quick cup of coffee, but then his eyes catch a familiar figure sitting alone at the bar. 

Cassian recognises the man immediately. Not just by his face and his posture, but by the glass of bourbon he has in his hand and by the swirl of cigarette smoke surrounding him. Strange. Usually, the bar is never empty at this time of day, and this man would never be caught drinking alone for too long. 

Despite the bourbon, Cassian notices that the man is stone cold sober when he approaches him. There is a radio behind the bar and the voice emitting from it is one Cassian knows well. It is Winston Churchill’s, gruff and stern, as if he is right there with them in the room. 

“ _…shall be strengthened and not weakened in our determination and in our resources…_ ”

Cassian’s eyes sweep over the blank expression of the man next to him. “Fleming?” 

Something is wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. 

There is no “Good afternoon, old chap” from his fellow spy. No “Hello, Andor". Nothing. And when Fleming turns to look Cassian dead in the eye, the expression on the Englishman’s face is so dreadful that it makes the blood in Cassian’s veins run cold. 

“What is it?” asks Cassian. “What’s happened?”

Fleming’s voice is deadly still. “The Germans have invaded the Soviet Union.” 

(And for Cassian Andor, Lisbon is Fleming's silence which follows, and Churchill’s voice, echoing in his mind and in the eerie stillness of the room: 

“ _…the lessons already taught by such cruel experience. Let us redouble our exertions and strike with united strength while life and power remain…_ ”) 

 

* * *

 

In Lisbon, the invasion changes nothing while changing everything.

When Draven looks at him during their meetings, Cassian thinks his mentor can read every line of tiredness etched across his haggard face. Their tasks in Portugal have not changed, but the speed by which they must get them done has increased tenfold. There are now more long, horrible nights of talking to men he detest. Long, tedious days of scouting out seedy rooms. More conversations held in fancy suites with corrupted politicians. More of him returning to his bed with the scent of another woman’s perfume on his clothes, another woman’s lipstick on his skin. 

And as for the woman herself. As for Jyn…

Cassian does not know where Jyn heard the news of the invasion from; he does not think to ask. But from the moment she knew, it is as if a door has been smashed open and the rage she has kept bottled up begins pouring out, wave after monstrous wave. During the months following the twenty-second of June, Cassian has thrice dragged her away from random bar fights during the dead of night. Twice, she has almost gotten arrested by the Portuguese police. And with him, she no longer keeps the windows of his hotel room shut when they make love. They have thrown caution to the wind - or rather _she_ has thrown caution to the wind - and they fuck during the day as well as after the sun has set.

(Sometimes, he thinks she does it just so they can do _something._ ) 

She is restless, like a caged animal. And they live their lives as if there is a giant clock counting down their time together. 

He keeps expecting her to leave him, but for some reason, she never does. 

.

.

.

It is late November, almost Christmas, when he finds her in his bed late one afternoon. 

He has stopped asking her how she manages to steal into his room when he is not there. It is not unusual for them anymore - him finding her here in random hours of the day. Sometimes, he finds her with a bottle of wine. Sometimes, with just her cigarettes. Other times, he finds her with nothing on except for a pair of stockings or a towel wrapped around her middle. 

(Every one of these images stay with him, far longer than they should.) 

This time, however, there is something different about the scene. She is not sitting up or lying seductively on the mattress. Instead, she is curled up on her side, her arms wrapped tightly around her legs, like a wounded animal nursing its wounds. She does not even turn her head to look at him when he enters the room. 

"Jyn?"

No reply. He does not even bother to take off his jacket. He quickly makes his way to the bed and puts a hand on her shoulder. 

"Jyn, what is it?" 

He turns her over and the expression on her face is one he has never seen her wear so openly before - not even when she first came to him drunk that day in June. The expression is broken, completely shattered, and seeing it makes him wish he never has to see it again.

His heart sinks like a stone in his chest.

“Jyn, what's wrong?” 

He thinks she is going to kiss him and not answer his question. (Again.) But her voice is devoid of any emotion when she says, “I met a man today.” 

“A man? What man?” 

“Just a man. He was in Kovno, only a few months ago.”

“Kovno. Isn’t that in Lithuania?” 

“Cassian…”

“What is it?”

“I am sorry,” whispers Jyn, and the way she caresses his cheek is uncharacteristically tender. “I am so sorry, but I must hurt you one more time.” 

.

.

.

Draven looks up, startled, as Cassian marches into his office without an invitation. Cassian slams the door shut behind him, causing the other man to flinch in surprise. 

“Andor, what is going on?” barks Draven. 

“Sir, is it true?” 

“Andor, what on earth are you talking about?”

Cassian begins pacing, unable to take a seat. His eyes keep darting around the room, from the door he has banged shut to the window that is barred and locked. “I’ve heard rumours, sir. Whispers.” 

“What whispers?” 

Cassian suddenly ceases his pacing and fixes his mentor with a steady gaze. Imploring. Begging. “Whispers about the Nazis. About the Einsatzgruppen. About what they’re doing.”

For a long while, Draven does not move. He does not even blink. Then - 

“Yes, it’s true.”

Cassian lets out a strangled noise and sinks into the chair, all the paranoia disappearing away immediately. He buries his face in his hand and, damn it, he didn’t want to believe it. He _couldn’t_ believe it. 

Draven shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Andor - ”

“How many?” 

“Andor - ”

“Sir, how many?” 

“We have no way of knowing for sure,” says Draven, and his voice is hollow, like nothing Cassian has ever heard before. “But more than fifty-thousand. Perhaps a hundred thousand by now. The reports have been…vague, at best.” 

“I heard something out of Poland, a year or two ago, but I didn’t want to believe it. I thought it was propaganda, planted by our side.” Cassian presses a shaking hand to his forehead. “Sir, I don’t understand. Tens and tens of thousands killed - sir, they can’t keep that hidden. Why aren’t we doing anything?” 

“Because the reports have been more like whispers than reports, Andor. And we can’t let the Germans know that we know. We have to preserve the intelligence, the codes. Otherwise, we might not know anything ever again. We must - ”

“Lose the battle and win the big war,” finishes Cassian, his every word laced with bitterness.

Draven winces. “It is the price we must pay, Andor. A means to an end. You know this.” 

They sit in silence for a few minutes, and Cassian is grateful that the other man is not trying to fill the emptiness with more pathetic excuses. The only sound is the ticking of the clock. It is a strangely comforting sound, one that makes it seem like there is still a shred of normalcy left in the world.

When Cassian speaks again, his voice comes out incredibly strained. 

“I have never questioned it before, sir. The means. Not when there’s a worthwhile end in sight. But this?” Cassian inhales sharply. He feels sick. “Sir, this is…”

“Monstrous, I know.” 

“Sir, I don’t think - ”

“What did I tell you when I recruited you, Andor?” 

It is Cassian’s turn to wince and his gaze drops from his mentor’s. He stares down at his hands, folded together in his lap. 

“We are but pawns in the bigger game and we must simply play our parts to the bitter end,” he recites harshly. The corners of his mouth twitch. A hint of an ironic smile. “It was a pretty dramatic statement, if I may so, sir.” 

“That it was. But it is quite fitting now, don’t you think?” 

Draven’s tone is so incredibly steady and calm that when Cassian looks up again, he is surprised to see pain and regret reflecting in his mentor’s eyes. 

This is the war’s gift to all of us, he thinks. Sorrow. 

.

.

.

Jyn is still there in his room when he returns. He hasn’t expected her to be, but she is. 

One look at his face tells her everything he cannot say. He takes off his jacket, removes his gun and joins her on the bed. There is a quiet moment when she touches her cigarette to his lips and lets him inhale. Then, she climbs onto his lap and she tastes of tears when he kisses her. 

“What are we to do?” she whispers.

He brushes her hair away from her face. Trails his fingers gently down her back.

“We fight.”

.

.

.

He wakes to the sound of rain pelting against his window. 

She is gone again, left no traces behind, except for the creases on his sheets and her scent on his clothes. It takes him a moment to turn and look at the clock on the bedside table. Seven o’clock. 

His head is heavy. Not from drink and nicotine, but from something else he recognises all too well. Grief. 

He props himself up on one elbow and his eyes stray over the empty space beside him. And there, on her pillow, is something he has not expected to see. A letter, folded and tucked into an envelope. 

He _knows._ Of course he knows. But he still leaves it untouched until he has finished showering and putting on his clothes. Then, he picks it up and stores it in his pocket, right by his battered copy of _Ulysses._

(Maybe if he does not read it right away, he can keep fooling himself for a little while long ago.) 

He ends up opening it five hours later, after he has met up with his contact at Cais do Sodrem, on a busy street corner where he can get shelter from the rain. Somehow, he feels like he has spent the entire day working up the courage just to take the envelope out of his pocket. Just to stare at it for longer than a few, short seconds. She would laugh at his cowardice. 

He sees her handwriting for the first time when the paper slips out. It is not elegant, but he didn’t expect it to be. Like the woman herself, it is flowing and harsh, every line reminiscent of the way her eyes blaze at him in the dark. 

_Read, Andor_ , he tells himself. _Just read._

 

_Dear Cassian,_

_I hope you could find it in your heart to forgive me for not giving you this letter in person. I have never been very good at farewells. And this is what this is - a farewell._

_I learnt long ago that this war takes away everything I love. Now, it seems I must let it take you too. I cannot stay with you in Lisbon, but not for the reason you might think. I am not going to America. I have decided to return to France. You were right. The fight is not over, and I have been running for far too long._

_Do not come after me. Do not try to find me. It is better this way. Perhaps one day, when this war is won, we shall meet again._

_Jyn_

 

(And for Cassian Andor, Lisbon is him standing in the rain, holding this letter in his hand, and feeling as proud of her as he is crushed at losing her.

Yes. This is how it should be.

He already knows how the story ends.  _Can’t bring back time_ ,

_like holding water in your hand._ ) 

.

.

.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the angsty ending, but there was no other way to end this, guys! I hope you enjoyed reading it nonetheless! Anyway, onto the history and there's a lot of it: 
> 
> \- There is a myth that Lisbon was founded by Odysseus (or Ulysses), a hero of the Trojan War. James Joyce' novel, Ulysses (published in 1922), was inspired by Odysseus' original mythology. Most of the italicised quotes in this story are taken from this novel. I'm so sorry for how hipster Cassian is in this, guys! ( ~~Okay, but maybe I'm not sorry?~~ ) 
> 
> \- The Special Operations Executive (SOE) had an office in Lisbon during WWII. So that's my justification for roping Draven into this. Cassian is indeed working as a double-agent for the British, feeding false information to the Germans and gathering intel on Portugal's actions. Cassian's character was partially inspired by another double agent named Juan Pujol Garcia, a Spanish spy who worked for the British and who was living in Lisbon for a while. His work was crucial to the success of D-Day and the Germans never suspected him at all. They even awarded him a medal for his 'valuable' information. Cassian's mention of the Iron Cross is a nod to this. 
> 
> \- Mendes is Aristides de Sousa Mendes. Please see the previous chapter's end notes for more info. 
> 
> \- António de Oliveira Salazar was Portugal's Prime Minister during WWII. Both Spain and Portugal were neutral and both tried to get through the war with as little damage as possible. This was why Salazar kept selling tungsten - Portugal's most valuable commodity used to make war munitions - to the Germans despite the Allies' protestations. 
> 
> \- Azores is a Portuguese island that both the Allies and the Axis sought to control due to its strategical location. Eventually, in 1943, Portugal signed a treaty which allowed Britain to lease air bases on the island, a crucial turning point in the Battle of the Atlantic. 
> 
> \- The treaty that's mentioned by Draven and Cassian is the Anglo-Portuguese Treaty of 1373. Britain did not ask for Portugal's assistance in the war so this treaty of "perpetual friendship" allowed the country to stay neutral. 
> 
> \- Fleming is Ian Fleming, author of James Bond, who was based in Lisbon for 'Operation Goldeneye'. His mission was to ensure that Britain would still have control of Gibraltar if Spain were to join the war or were to be invaded by the Axis. He was also well-known for his love of bourbon and chain-smoking. 
> 
> \- On June 22, 1940, an armistice was signed between the Germans and the French (the fall of France). On the exact same day, a year later, the Germans invaded the Soviet Union (Operation Barbarossa). The quotes from Churchill are taken from a real speech he made on June 22, 1941, in response to the news of the invasion. 
> 
> \- The Einsatzgruppen were the Nazi death squad who were responsible for the mass killings of Jews and other minorities in Eastern Europe. 
> 
> \- Shortly after the invasion of the Soviet Union, the Nazi death squad shot nearly 3,000 Jews near Kovno, Lithuania, on July 6, 1941. Similar mass killings were to follow, bringing the total of Jews murdered in the Soviet Union up to nearly 50,000 by the end of the year. 
> 
> \- Information about the mass murders of Jews began reaching the free world after the actions began in the Soviet Union in late June, 1941. These reports began spreading through intercepted German reports, local eyewitnesses, escaped Jews and other neutral sources. However, the Allies did not publicly address these reports until December, 1942. So we still don't know for sure _when_ they first started hearing of these atrocities, to what extent they understood the scale of it, or how much effort they put into 'doing something' about it. 
> 
> \---
> 
> So that's it for Lisbon, guys. PLEASE, PLEASE hit me with your thoughts, feelings and questions. I'd love to hear from you! [You can also check out the series’ official playlist here. I'll be updating it as I go along.](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL6q0-u-EGyHV_gc5rxOwwUA5NFzQKEHUQ)


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